A Sticky Situation for Sparrowhawk

Most of her previous attempts at superheroism hadn't turned out very good. But perhaps she was finally getting the hang of this business. Coming into her own, at last. It was a grand feeling.

Sparrowhawk had discovered the hideout of a new villain calling himself (with somewhat surprising restraint) the Moderator. His thing was to kidnap women—often prominent public figures—and then force them to compete in degrading pornographic games, which he then broadcast on the internet. Most recently, he'd nabbed the city's new district attorney, Miranda Weiss.

The Moderator's lair turned out to fill the top five floors of a skyscraper in the heart of downtown. It was actually right across the street from the central courthouse where Miranda worked every day. That entire top section of the building was supposed to be the offices of a sophisticated medical technology developer called Crisis-Release. But of course that was all only a cover. There were no offices in there at all. Only a complex, devious maze and obstacle course that his victims were forced to run through, pursued by robots.

Sparrowhawk blasted inside through the roof of the building, and worked her way downward, moving as fast as she could. And that was pretty darn fast now. She had redesigned her green and blue powersuit with several significant enhancements. Perhaps it was still reckless to do this by herself—she could have contacted other heroines, to back her up. But she wanted to capture the Moderator alone. After that, the media as well as the rest of the worldwide super-community would finally start taking her more seriously. Up 'til now, she was always considered a well-intentioned but rather ineffectual, clumsy novice (and with good reason, sad to say, when she thought back over some of her more embarrassing misadventures). Now she was going to change that. Take her career to the next level.

The Moderator's robots shot at her with laser rifles, but the beams couldn't hurt her, thanks to her armor. At least not so long as they weren't able to concentrate their fire on any one spot, and she was much too speedy and agile to allow that to happen. She tumbled and whirled among them, laughing all the while, her augmented strength enabling her to smash their heads in with high kicks, or to tear off their limbs in her hands. It felt like dancing. Great fun.

Watching her through the cameras in every corridor, the Moderator kept sending fresh waves of robots against her, as she descended deeper into the labyrinth ... He must have built dozens and dozens of them—an entire army of the things, crawling out of the walls. The designs weren't very original. Some looked like skeletal men, and others were shaped like big scary spiders. But she certainly enjoyed destroying them. Soon enough at the rate she was going, he'd be sure to run out.

But then they changed their weapons. They gave up on the lasers and tried something else.

The new guns they used, with absurd bulbous tips that were clearly designed to look phallic, squirted wide streams of purple gel at her. They hosed her thickly with the stuff—it wasn't possible to avoid them. It got all over her. Smeared the lenses of her goggles so she couldn't see—she had to raise them to her forehead. Unfortunately that meant she was unmasked. Crap! To keep her identity protected, she would need to make sure once she got hold of the Moderator that everything his cameras were recording now got safely and irretrievably erased. But of course she had been planning to do that already, for the sake of all his victims. She would wipe out every trace of all those shameful spectacles he'd filmed ... Nothing with the missing district attorney had been released on to the web yet. But that didn't mean Miranda Weiss hadn't already been put through his maze. He never did live broadcasts—the Moderator preferred to edit his footage carefully first, adding music and other effects.

Then she realized the purple gel was beginning to harden like glue, all over the outside of her suit. Making it harder for her to move. In fact if the suit wasn't as powerful as it was, she might have been immobilized already. But even so, as more layers of gel were sprayed upon her, she didn't think the suit's joints could continue to function for much longer. The gel was just too thick and sticky.

Sparrowhawk fled around a curving passageway on her left that looked empty, partially collapsing the ceiling behind her with a couple extra-savage punches, and thus cutting off pursuit from the robots and buying herself a little time—a little breathing space. But she knew it wouldn't be long. Soon the robots would find another route to reach her.

She tried to scrape off the icky gel with her hands, but it was no good. All that accomplished was nearly gluing her hands to her thighs. "Dammit! This is bad! This is bad! Shit!" Sparrowhawk realized the only thing she could do was remove her suit altogether, before it petrified around her body and trapped her inescapably. It was programmed with an emergency codeword, in case it became compromised, to fragment into its component segments and fall away off of her. Like if some outside force took control of it somehow ... Well, she'd never imagined a situation like this—defeated by yucky glue—but it certainly qualified, all the same. The suit was compromised and she had to get out of the thing. "Molt!" she said. All its seams popped at once, and then hissed, releasing steam. The gel coating prevented most of the segments from immediately dropping off to the floor like they were supposed to, but she was still able, with some effort and some swearing, to shake them free. They tumbled around her bare feet, with a clatter—for even her boots had gone now—each designed to split in half from top to toe. Her gloves had split and dropped off the same way. Leaping clear of the metallic pile, which still steamed a little, she found she could fully move again. There was no more of the awful gel left on her, except for a few tiny splotches stuck on her cheeks and in her hair.

Unfortunately she was now almost entirely naked. All she had left was her panties. She wore nothing else under her powersuit. No bra, nor even a pair of socks. It wasn't comfortable otherwise. It fit too snug, and made her sweat too much if there was an extra layer of cloth beneath it. Also it was designed to interact directly with her nervous system, through hundreds of contact points that needed to touch her skin to work properly. That complex sensor system was what enabled her to control the suit so fluidly.

Without the powersuit, she was just an ordinary young woman. Well, she still had her intelligence, and a lot of martial arts training. But she was no superheroine anymore. It was a dreadful, stomach shriveling sensation—the feeling of diminishment. Being normal wasn't something she could deal with any good. Not anymore. Not since she'd reinvented herself as Sparrowhawk. Her normal, plain, uncostumed self always felt much too small. Much too weak.

She knew she had let herself become too psychologically dependent on the powers her suit gave her. But that power was so thrilling. So addictive. To lose it all the sudden, like this—and it had happened to her before, a few times—she couldn't handle it. She hadn't learned how. Her spirit just instantly fell to pieces, the same as her suit had. She started to choke up, and sniffle ... Tears welled in her eyes. God, it was so pathetic. She immediately turned into such a crybaby. She hated it but she couldn't help herself. When she lost her power, she lost control of her feelings.

She started to run. Her situation looked hopeless, but all she could do was keep moving—try to find a way out of the maze, or at least a place to hide. Since she'd trashed the upper levels so much, and lowered the robot population a great deal in the process, if she could get back up there she would stand a faint chance of escape. She had to reach the hole she'd made in the roof. The Moderator wouldn't have had time to seal the breach yet. Once out in the open, what then? She couldn't fly down from there, without her suit. She would need to try to summon help, but how? Well, she wouldn't worry about that part. Not yet. Chances are she wouldn't make it anyway ... but she had to quit thinking like that! That was defeatist! She had to keep her courage up.

It was so hard, though ... when she was practically stark naked. This was so absurd and humiliating. She kept her shoulders hunched as she ran, with her arms crossed over her chest, to hide her tits from the cameras. She wished she was bold enough not to worry about that—but she was too shy. Too embarrassed. She could imagine the Moderator laughing maniacally as he watched her, on his screen ... He would be loving this! A superheroine isn't supposed to let bad guys see her tits. It's just not dignified. How could you look a bad guy in the eye, after he'd disgraced you like this? After he had forced you to get naked against your will? God, it was unbearable to think about—but of course she couldn't stop thinking about it.

The tile floor was ice cold under her bare feet, sending shivers up her spine ... but at the same time, her face felt scorching hot. Worse yet, the walls in this corridor were silver, and reflective. So she could see herself. She could see the distress and shame on her face, and the weakness. Her red cheeks, her teary eyes, her quivering bottom lip ... It was a frightened guilty little girl's face, not at all the face of a superheroine.

Then a trapdoor opened beneath her, and she fell. Not far. It dropped her just one level down, into a circular white room. The floor was padded, like in a gym. Huddled on her haunches on the mat, she looked around at the robots now closing in around her from all sides. Four of the skeleton guys. They held no weapons, but they were reaching for her with their long-fingered hands.

She screamed. Jumped up and tried to run. But they were too close and too quick, and they seized her. She was caught! Oh God, she was caught! She was doomed.

Two of them held her arms, forcing them away from her chest and straight out to her sides. So her boobs were exposed. She felt her defenseless nipples tightening and throbbing in reaction. It was almost like they were crying out silently to her, accusingly. Like they were feeling fear of their own. Because she had failed to keep them covered and safe.

Another of the robots hooked his fingertips into the hem of her panties—he was going to peel them down. But he didn't do it right away. He hesitated. He was drawing it out, to torment her ... She writhed and kicked. But it wouldn't do any good. All she did was tear the hem, a little, thrashing around so much while the metal man didn't move at all. "Let go of me! Don't you do it! Don't take them! Don't you dare! You've no right! You'll pay!"

"Make her naked," drawled a voice, from a speaker. "Push them down around her knees."

The robot did this. Now they trapped her knees together. Her own underwear had been used to bind her legs, unless she chose to wriggle her knees until they loosened and she made the bunched-up panties slide all the way down around her ankles ... But she didn't do that. She didn't want to do that. She didn't want to lose them completely. She wanted to be able to pull them right back up, the second the other guys let go of her arms. If they ever would.

"You bastards! You bastards! You can't do this to me! You can't treat me this way!" But they could.

And they did. She was a prisoner. She was helpless. She was naked. The Moderator's cameras were taking in all of this. Every inch of her body.

This would be a really good moment for a friend of hers to show up out of the blue and rescue her ... The proverbial nick of time. Right now was definitely it. Like Night Raven, for example. She owed her. Sparrowhawk had once saved her bacon from a situation just as bad as this one. Or at least she'd tried to. She had blown it a little, so in the end, Night Raven had to save them both. But she wouldn't have got the chance to do that if Sparrowhawk hadn't shown up. Her involvement distracted the bad guys, if nothing else.

Sadly, the help she needed failed to materialize. Night Raven seemed to have missed her cue, and no other superheroes or heroines suddenly burst through the ceiling, like they should have. Because this was the kind of luck she had. Which was none. Or just the bad kind—she always got plenty of that.

"I'll make you pay for this! I promise you I'll make you pay!" She was still blushing, and trembling, and weeping, but at least she was speaking with defiance. With fierce conviction. She wasn't making a greater fool of herself by pathetically and uselessly pleading with him. At least she managed not to sink so low as that.

Now the two robots that weren't holding her arms—the one that just pushed down her panties, and the fourth one—they each produced an object from a slot behind their backs, and held the things up in front of her.

"Choose your punishment, trespasser," said the voice from the walls. The Moderator himself, no doubt. "Which will you have? Which are you courageous enough to face?"

One of them was holding a ping-pong paddle. Oh God. The other object was a large vibrator. Very large. It was bright pink in color, and it had blinking lights built into it. It was a bizarre shape, with lots of knobs and ridges on it. It had two heads, a big one and a little one. The little one above the big one, and angled a little back from it. She'd had one of her own like that, for a while. Not quite as weird—no lights, not so many extra protuberances. But it had two different size heads arranged in that same way, for stimulating the two best spots on you at the same time, in a way a man's penis never could. But then she dropped it one day and it had broken on the floor and she'd never replaced it. Too embarrassed, actually. Even to order one online, believe it or not. She had used the thing too often, while she owned it. That had been a lonely time for her, while she was experimenting with her first powersuit prototype. Lots of long hours and painful setbacks ...

Sparrowhawk took a breath and swallowed painfully a couple time to clear the nervous tightness in her throat, and then she said, "I choose the damn paddle, you bastard. And to Hell with you."

She almost immediately regretted the choice and wished she could take it back. She wanted to be tough enough to face this, but she feared in her heart and in her guts that she wasn't—not even close. Still, it was done, and she was proud of herself, for making that pick. It was the appropriate response for a heroine.

"Are you sure?" said the Moderator, "I think you will change your mind, before very long."

"Damn you! Get on with it, if you're going to do this shit! I will not break! I'll not give you the sick satisfaction, you vile psycho!"

"But I believe you will break, Sparrowhawk. I know that you are quite powerless, without your suit. My robots are very angry with you, for destroying so many of their brethren. I fear they will be quite harsh with you. I would recommend you choose the other instrument. They will still use it harshly, but you will not suffer. Most of my audience would prefer to see that as well. Not all, but most. They would rather watch you submit to pleasure, than to pain."

"I will not submit to you at all! I will not perform for your amusement!"

"Yes you will. Your performance has already begun. You must accept that. Reconsider your position. You are naked and powerless. By the time my robots are finished with you, you will be begging them to allow you the relief of an orgasm. I know it embarrasses you to imagine yourself in such a state, but it will happen. There is no escaping this, Sparrowhawk. It is only a question of time. Why not embrace it? Why not spare yourself the spanking?"

"Just shut up! Go to hell! Do your worst, you sonofabitch!"

"Well, just keep this in mind. If you do decide to switch, all you have to do is ask."

"Never! Damn you!"

"We shall see. You heard her, boys. You may spank the woman now. Teach her the error of her ways."

The robot with the paddle walked around behind her. The two holding her arms and shoulders each crossed a lower leg in front of her shins, to brace her legs and give them leverage on her. And then they forced her to bend at the waist, and better present her bare ass. She was lifted to the balls of her feet. Now she was bent so far off balance, if they hadn't been holding her, she would have toppled over on her nose.

She was spanked. Not gently. Not at all.

It wasn't too bad, at first. But soon it got bad. It got harder and harder to bear. Until finally she couldn't bear it at all. Not with any dignity, at least. Her feet kicked behind her. She tried twisting her hips, to avoid the blows. It did no good at all.

The sounds it made—Swack! Swack! Those dreadful sounds stung her almost worse than the hits themselves. She imagined each stroke wouldn't have burned her bottom half as much if they only didn't sound like that—so terribly loud and brutal and appalling. Swack!

She began to shriek. Anger helped at first, for a while. "You bastards! You fuckers! Ohnnhh! God! God damn you! GOD! Damn you! You've no right to treat me like this! I'll make you pay! I swear I'll make you paAAHHhrrhh! Guhhrrhhnn!"

But eventually anger wasn't cutting it anymore ... It was replaced by overwhelming sorrow and humiliation. She must not break! She must not beg! But it just went on and on. It would go on until she gave in and disgraced herself, the way he wanted to see. She succumbed to despair. After that, she started to beg. She couldn't prevent herself. She knew it would do no good. But she did it anyway. Her desperation was too strong.

"Please! No more! Ahhahhnn! Please oh please! Mercy! No more now! Nuuhhrrgghh! I can't take anymore! I can't! I beg for mercy! All right? I give in now. I'm begging you! Hnnh! This is what you wanted, right? So fine. You win! I'm begging! Please!"

"Your punishment is not complete, Sparrowhawk. But as I told you before, if you are too weak to endure the paddle, than you may take the other punishment instead. But you must ask for it."

"I do! I do! All right! I do!"

"You must ask me nicer than that, Sparrowhawk."

"Please! The vibrator! Use the vibrator instead! Please! I can't stand the paddle anymore! Please punish me with the vibrator now! I beg you!"

So they did.

They lifted her feet off the ground completely, and slid her panties the rest of the way off. She whimpered as they were torn from her. Then the robots held her legs as wide as they could stretch, supported from under her knees. The stretching, that sensation in itself, forced another pitiful moan from her.

"Oh God. Oh my God. Ohhh noo Gawwwd."

You'd think there was a saturation point with anxiety. Where your capacity for anticipation and dread would just cut off. But if there was such a point, she still hadn't reached it. Because her tension continued to build and build—it made her curl her toes so tight that her feet cramped. Felt like they'd both got pounded on the arches with hammers.

And her vagina was gaping open. She couldn't make it close, in this ghastly suspended pose—she strained as hard as she could down there, but it didn't seem to do any good. She didn't have the strength anymore. She had no strength left at all. Absolutely none. Her whole body felt limp as a ragdoll, except she was quivering all over. Her teeth were chattering, too. But she didn't feel cold, not at all—instead she had a fever. She was boiling inside. The Moderator's robots could have fried eggs on her forehead, if he'd wanted them to. But of course that wasn't the kind of performance he was interested in ...